Peter Does it Again
by meenist
Summary: “Hook was last seen off the coast roping up a number of Indian slaves to the rigging of his ship.” He said it with a very broad and influential smile, a perpetually enticing lilt and hiss in his deliverance. Simple adventure! r&r!


**This is a (relatively) pointless day in Pan's life... but it's very fun, and sorta a stream of consciousness. Just go with it! I wish I could've written one of the Peter Pan prequels before that butthead got to it. ..You'll know what I mean if you try to read that crap. ANYWAY!! ... Please continue, me hearties!  
**

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"A parachute?"

The feral boy looked up from his wildflower dinner glass with the medicine inside. Anything to postpone its intake. "Why would_ I_ need a parachute?"

"In case," Slightly said as he busied himself with a shapeless lump of fabric, the parachute. Wendy was sewing it up from the other end, at his feet. "Precautionary measures, is all."

"Forget it."

"But father, it's dangerous times with Hook and his dirty dogs at large!" Various intonations of concurrence followed.

Medicine forgotten (on purpose), Peter slapped the arms of his tree root throne, using the force as propulsion to stand. The sharpness of his movement startled some—namely the Twins—into observation as still and alert as a wild animal what just heard a hunter's step. He seemed to have misplaced the memory of the parachute in an instant, but always the mention of Hook drove him into recalling some other, relevant information that he had in turn forgotten before.

"Hook was last seen off the coast roping up a number of Indian slaves to the rigging of his ship." He said it with a very broad and influential smile, a perpetually enticing lilt and hiss in his deliverance. "The mermaids," he added in Wendy's direction, as he had read her parting lips before they could ask him where he'd heard.

"Slaves!" Tootles had jumped to his feet, both outraged and thrilled.

"Take them from the landside while still they dock! Peter can catch them by sea!" Nibs was already drawing up battle plans, as was customary. Also according to custom, Nibs watched Peter carefully as it was only he that would officially seal any proposed attack schematic.

"Right," Peter agreed readily, and an amount of routine tension was lifted from his league. He clapped his hands together once, and as affectively as a gunshot before a race, the Lost Boys sprang and hustled and gathered their various weapons off the grotto's walls. This left only Wendy sitting singly before him. Peter came forward and watched from over her.

"What are you doing, Wendy?"

"Sewing," she answered just as she finished. She lifted the product for appraisal. It was this: a motley arrangement of landscapes--rugged jungles, fire-red deserts, autumn forests, wind current seas. All rolling hills, thick brush, fierce jigsaw pieces strung together with strips of rawhide land, dozens of bridges that united the world. Peter's eyes were large and inquisitive.

"What is it?"

"A parachute," Wendy reminded him. "By design of the Lost Boys, after you fell from the sky yesterday afternoon."

"I didn't fall!" His expression was an instantly skeptical one, and he did not bother to fish his slippery thoughts for the truth. It could be no other way, besides.

"Of course not," she said. "But because you fell, you are going to wear this today." She stood and untangled her limbs, as soft and beautiful as a white lily. Peter bounded backwards a foot, still carefully fixed on her.

"Can't make me!"

Wendy had to do little more than hold the parachute in her arms and fasten her most serious look on Peter. Her allure as a mother whom one was to obey was always very compelling, even for an untamed Neverland whelp, and perhaps even especially for one. It may have been the complex amalgamation of both untimely maturity and intense adventurous passion, the latter quite apparent in the bird feathers strung throughout her long hair. Yet these decorations were subtle, all shades of brown and gray, reminding the others that reds, blues, and greens still belonged to the careless lifestyle of the Lost Boys.

Peter slipped quick, sun-browned arms into the straps of his parachute. He frowned for a moment. It was nearly too heavy, yet refused to pass the threshold after which Peter would have thrown it from his frame in the name of decency. He hopped once, twice, caught the eyes of all his boys. He remained unconvinced.

Slightly began a spattering of applause. "First class, father!"

"Yes father! Splendid!"

"Great!"

"Powerful!"

"Unique!"

Peter was smiling approvingly (of himself, mostly). He tried his best to look at himself in his silhouette against the hideout wall, commanding it to spin around as he watched. "It's perfect!" he decided. Wendy beamed and Peter escaped through the roof in a flourish of stirred up fall leaves and fairydust. When he alighted on the forest floor outside, his men were all grounded and waiting for him. He examined them in turn and lightning fast, compiling information that soon crept away from him.

Curly was sporting the most deadly-looking hammer they'd ever stolen from the redskins. Its stone head was permanently stained in some old, sapphire lifeblood. Not man's blood; this armament had seen magical prey.

Slightly was a boy who preferred the telescope, a bow and quiver strapped to his back in case violence was necessary. He certainly hoped so.

Tootles too had use for a bow, and being such an incredibly accurate shot and also a measure larger than the others, had been given the heavier, deadlier arrows with which to maim and kill.

The Twins fingered club maces in their hands, wooden and heavily splintered, bedecked with sharp pieces of mermaid glass, pirates' rum bottles, and cactus spines.

Nibs too held a similar weapon, though unique in the sense that he could wield it far more affectively then the small boys (when, of course, he chose not to use his bare fists). There was a provisionary, child-size javelin strapped to his back as well. As battle manager, he would never be caught unprepared.

All of the boys were covered in paint tarnished, miscellaneous armor. Tin cans, coconuts, bamboo blinds, teapot lids and animal skins. They were adorned for war.

Peter Pan, however, standing ahead of his confederation, was naked in comparison. Barely clad in the furnishings of the forest, all leaf, acorn and vine, Peter at first glance cut a figure better suited for nature watching than warfare. His flesh was brilliant enough to resist camouflage, glowing of its own accord, eternally dusted with fairysparkle. He was a wild-haired forest sprite, both mint and dirt, whimsically impressive.

And, of course, he could fly.

Peter expected that the boys would dash expertly through the underbrush as he soared up and over their path, watching for danger, scouting for clues. Lately he had been escorting Wendy skyward with him, as even he would not require a lady to brave the humid perils of the forest (that and, the redskins were known to hunt as viciously as bloodhounds for little girls of Wendy's type). Taking her hand in his automatically, the two of them took flight and headed for the shore. Wendy waved back at the boys, who called like scalp thirsty Indians as they ran.

Peter and his Wendy rode the wind. Her hair caught ripples like waves, the tiny wooden beads Peter had given to her for decoration clunking musically against each other. He took some giddy pleasure in the way she wore his gifts and that they called out to him when they flew. He answered by threading his fingers briefly through the tiny braids and beads, admiring the length of her hair as he did so.

"Peter!" Wendy called out abruptly, startling him into an excited darting of eyes and focus. She was pointing over the lush green tissue of the forest, past its perfectly succinct perimeter and to the beach beyond. There, unmistakably, the Jolly Roger had run nearly aground. Ants were carrying struggling booty ten times their weight over the sand and back towards the safety of their skull-flagged, wooden palace. With eyes as severe as a hawk's, Peter scanned the ship's deck for its blood red captain. There, the child Indians were lashed to the rigging. Struggle and curse as they might, there was little escape for them under the physical prowess of their pirate kidnappers. The ropes looked awfully tight. It turned Peter's stomach to see it. His vision was squeezed within the incisions of two heated, lash rimmed slits.

"Wait for the Lost Boys here." They had suddenly landed on a quiet part of the shore away from the ship, just where the moist shade of the trees and soil gave immediate way to coarse sand and sizzling hot sunlight.

"Here!?" Wendy's incredulous shout was lost on the dust of his departure as Peter shot towards the Jolly Roger, rustling leaves and rounded sword hilt whistling at his hip.

The ship's hull was very hot and dry as his soles met the rail. It had been sitting here for some time. Had he allowed so many hours to pass before making his move? How did it matter, besides? He was here now. The sea breeze whispered secret urgings in his ear. He batted at it as he would Tink. He had no time; it was the ship's turn to speak. Where was Hook? His smile pierced the upper level of the vessel. His bare toes wiggled impatiently.

When Hook refused to show himself, and Peter grew tired of striking a classic pose against the sun, he remembered the Indians. If he could manage to free a few of them, perhaps then Hook would rear his ugly, bearded old head.

That is when the giant monster hit the ship.

Peter knew the thick wet thud of a cephalopod tentacle by heart. Not through experience, for he had never actually been so deep within the sea to see one. It was a rare if not gloriously singular event for one to venture so close to shore. And so Peter understood it to be what it was because his heart had been instilled with the memory of all things adventurous, even if his mind hadn't quite caught up to the occasion. His unconscious familiarity gave him wings on which to fly—barely skirting the heavy purple fish limb that slapped the deck like a ten ton truck.

He laughed uproariously, seeing the feeler lash across the wood in its own viscous trail, searching for him, suckers puckering like wet, toothless gums. Each of them would emit, he knew, a paralyzing poison that would render the victim helpless. Unnecessary, however, for the wringing potential of those tentacles was enough to crush the entirety of the Jolly Roger with little contest. He watched the creature make a dash at one of the mast poles. Crack!

From his high, exciting, vantage point, Peter could see that the giant squid—or was it a crab of some sorts, or a limbed eel?—was nearly half the size of the ship. It hugged the vessel from behind, shuddering and angry, popping rivets with every coiling of its muscular body. He attempted to count how many legs he could cut off, grew bored with senseless mathematics, and even refused to wonder about the feasibility of such a thick limb being severed by his meager blade. His only deliberation was this: to battle the Kraken would be a great, great adventure.

He came at the instant that the monster was to twist the heads off the Indian slaves. With a bright sharp slashing, he cut the thing and made it hiss and erupt saltwater from the wound. Suction cups glistened, shuddered, slurped the floorboards as it reared again for a more desperate attack.

"Have at thee, squid!" Peter called within a hiccupping laugh. The creature would take offense to the common name, but Pan was ready to hack its offensive. Corkscrewing, he evaded a second tentacle that grew treacherously behind him. The sneaky demon had no opportunity; Peter was as fleeting as a fairy, footsteps light and elusive as a first snowfall. His form was excellent, doubtless, a dance of cleverness and dexterity the Indians could only reflect through wide eyes and taste in the saltwater that penetrated their gags.

The deck of the Jolly Roger was taking much punishment. Floorboards either hopped or buckled, sometimes exposing the chambers below. There were dull white glistenings within—the eyes of pirates that hid quivering below decks to escape the monster. Wherever Hook had disappeared to was an unimportant detail in Peter's scheme, for here was a game, slapping high five with each tentacle in turn, sometimes more than one, always parrying and stabbing and sampling the texture of boiled crabmeat with each run of his blade.

His entire side was wet with monster dribble, glutinous and clingy as mucus. Sometime during the dirty fray the Lost Boys and his Wendy must have boarded the ship, for he turned around to look at her with a grin and said "Watch this!"

Spiraling into the air as quick and brilliant as a pinwheel, Peter teased the raging tentacles to follow him so irresistibly, and so they did. Wendy and a bit of Tootles were still quite visible on deck when Peter turned to face the monster, sword bared, teeth bared, heart wild and crowing.

His arm was stiff but he rotated it at the shoulder, freeing it up for the next attack. No fatigue had found him, no stress slowed his movements. Only boredom or death could finish this game, and with a lady as an addressee Peter was as swift and ostentatious as a green parrot, hoping to impress.

Wendy had brandished a sword below him with a smile of her own. Exasperated, Peter realized that not every tentacle had followed him skyward, and that with some part of the beast occupying her and the other boys, he would never be the spectacle he had hoped for. The pleasure of being his own audience was never as strong as it should be when he remembered Wendy could be watching. He dropped like a stone, bypassing what parts had actually followed him and landing solidly with his heels on the deck. He had alighted amid a slimy battle of sword, spear, and squid. His swordless arm took hold of Wendy round the midsection, choking the billowing nightgown at the middle. It filled with air about her chest and escaped via the neckline, throwing a burst of air through her hair and jingling the wooden beads as he pushed off skyward again. The Lost Boys, firmly mid-skirmish, all shouted words (or sounds) of praise up at their chief as he left. They rode the wind up, up, until the sea and the trees were part of a colorful patchy carpet beneath them.

"Wendy, watch!" he shouted on the wind, which whipped the command back around Peter's face into hers. She saw him throw some glinting object down towards the beast. It was Nibs' javelin. She wondered if Peter had simply stolen the weapon when the boy was unawares, but even Pan understood the boundaries of clever, proper warfare. The spear struck a nerve.

"Ah ha!" he cried in triumph, before choking on his words and beginning to sink. It was, of course, the paralyzing toxins of the sea creature's Never-spit, a powerful and dangerous defense mechanism. It had begun in his shoulder, which tingled something uproariously and refused to follow any of his orders. Besides banishment, Peter had no other means of forcing an unwilling participant to work. He could not rationally banish his own arm, and so he yelled at it instead.

"Peter!" Wendy was clinging hard round his neck, so that she would not slip from his grape jelly grasp. A great alarm—never fear, Peter knew no fear—seized his heart. If he were to fall, Wendy would as well. And without a fairy, without Tinker Bell, fairy dust was scarce. Wendy could not fly without him. He shook his head fast as a dog, hoping some remnant might remain. A few neverbugs, small and bright as little jewels, took their leave of his wild locks (one squeaked "my word!"). A few leaves, a pink flower petal or two, but no dust.

"Wendy," he heard himself warn, "I'm all out of dust."

She seemed fairly untroubled, though she did take great care to twist her thighs in ways that kept the nightgown from billowing too far. "That's fine, Peter, but could you…?" He twisted his good arm up underneath her legs and held her by the backs of her knees like a bride, knowing exactly what she required though he understood very little of feminine modesty.

Still they sank, faster now. The details of the ship were becoming more apparent, and Peter could see the other boys having great fun with the kraken, making lots of noise like birds. All in a day's work. He barely noticed through the fun that the monster wasn't relenting a fraction, rather pulling itself more fully onboard to attack with the bulk of its body, all mouth, tooth, and barnacle breath.

"Your parachute," Wendy suddenly said, "You could use that."

"My what?" wind took the magical tears straight from his eyes and fed them to thirsty little flying things on the updraft.

"The parachute. On your back."

"Oh, that." There was a great pause where nothing took place. The sun was free and inquisitive on their faces as they plummeted, the battle below a colorful representation of what it meant to live in Neverland. Peter could see much of the island from here, each part of it housing its own exciting adventure. He could identify ten or so of them, a bit repetitious and usually involving a rogue band of pirates, a carnivorous tree plant, or a bit of Indian warfare. Perhaps Tiger Lily was among them. He remembered that she might've been a warrior. Or perhaps just another carnivorous flower. He couldn't be sure.

"PETER!" Wendy must have been shaking him, but the numbness made it very hard to notice before now.

He came to his senses just in time to take in a sharp breath, fill his lungs with Neverland air. Just because it recognized him as the great Peter Pan it allowed him to borrow its buoyancy and hit the ship deck with little more disaster than a dull throbbing in the heels of his feet when they slapped down. He was facing away from the monster—vertical toothy mouth slobbering inches behind him—and facing quite proudly the terrified faces of a group of young Lost Boys who were just about to be swallowed. Wendy had screamed and pulled the cord of his parachute, still thinking them falling. And then a huge and colorful banner sprouted from the bag on his back, bursting with enough passion to knock him over on his knees, Wendy and all.

The beast made a terrible shrieking gurgle and flailed under the parachute. Wendy's stitching held it fast, throwing it into a wailing tantrum. It was a baby kraken after all, most likely fallen from its beastly pram and thus explaining its venturesome, greedy desire to eat the little Indian sacrifices. Children very rarely knew the inhibitions harbored by the adults of their species.

Peter paid little attention to the sea monster's brutish fit, even as it smashed the helm and snapped a fully fledged cannon in two. He was busy frowning at his arm, which was still as limp and wiggly as an old rubber chicken. He sucked his teeth in annoyance, barely noticing a tentacle as it skimmed the top of his head mid-swing, matting his hair in wet. It was not until the kraken had asphyxiated itself and lay dead on deck that Peter looked up from his own limbs.

"Where's Hook?"

Wendy, the Lost Boys, and even James himself (from his cabin, where he hid) stared at him in incredulity. But Peter's giggle was too exhilarating to remain unbelieving for long. In no time the entirety of the ship was up in arms with cheering, passing fairies of course spreading to trees and bears alike that Peter Pan had slain a vicious sea fiend. For all that had a taste for squid, a great banquet would be held. It was during times like these when even the pirates were remiss in their dirty duties, choosing instead to sit knee to knee with their sworn enemies, roasting up a great feast and swapping sea stories. No rum for the children, of course.

Slightly cuffed cups with Alf. "And did you _see _that _throw? _Just marvelous!" Peter's throw, no doubt. The javelin.

"Aye, seen it with me own eye jus' in time to duck it afore it took me head clean off!"

The Twins ran circles around no other but Smee, a good natured bumbler when Hook was not abounding at his shoulder. They tripped over loose floorboards and leftover, impotent sea slime. Smee slurped a carefully charred tentacle, hiccupping Muscat as he went.

Peter Pan sat carefully by himself, leafy sash rustling in the sea breeze, looking out to the water. He would not pretend to enjoy the pirates' company, nor participate in any play with grownups, unless they were likely to be skewered on his sword. He had very little comprehension that it was in fact his mere presence that brought a great childish party aboard the ship, and that Hook would hide away from it lest he be captivated by the boy's powers. Peter would not touch the food, for he only dined on his own imagination. He may have even taken real offense that the boys would eat an actual kraken, even swear never to forgive them, but it mattered little as tomorrow he would forget.

He turned a moment, hearing a soft wooden tinkling he knew belonged to Wendy's beads. She no longer sat among the others but came to keep him company. He could always count on her to join him while he was thinking. He hoped she would not lecture him, knew she would, and was more than surprised when she only lifted herself to sit beside him, swinging her bare feet back and forth, back and forth. She hadn't even mentioned any medicine.

"This won't last for long," she observed as she watched the mismatched friends consuming their lucky catch.

"Good," Peter was fingering his sword impatiently. He would be content when he could use it again to shed pirate gore.

"Won't you enjoy it, for just a little while?"

He shook his head as if Wendy were a little, dim-witted creature. His smile was a bit pretentious, but she should have known by now that there was nothing that Peter did not enjoy. "I shall," he said. He reached out for her.

A trace shocked, Wendy gave her hand to him. When he pulled her close, there was nothing quite like it. They stood together, watching the sunset. It set over everything evenly: rugged jungles, fire-red deserts, autumn forests, wind current seas. Like the parachute that Wendy had made for him, Neverland sparkled and winked and shook out its hair for the night. He took a deep breath, and when he let it out again, the sun had disappeared. The feast continued by lamplight. Nibs, Curly, the Twins, Tootles, and Slightly. Pan's crew. Acting as children amongst their foes until it was time to play again, weapons at their side, armor rolled up and discarded and full of painted holes. And then there was Wendy, his girl, feeling very good beside him and ruffling unnecessary feelings within Peter's breast, very clean in such a dirty place and even glowing like a nightlight to chase away bad dreams. And Pan, a feeling himself, confined to that forest boy's body, who would never quite know why he held Wendy's hand now, or why he squeezed.


End file.
